A Letter To Barb

Dear Barb,

I already know the first word you’re going to say in your mind when you realize I’ve written your letter. 

“Finally”

That was the word, right?

You’ve only made me feel bad about not writing your letter for the last 14 months, but who’s counting? Oh right, you were!

It’s fine. 

Notice how I slowly turned this around and made you look bad for hounding me, when it is I, who has put this off for so long? It’s a talent. I use it when necessary.

Anyways, hello! Paul here. You there.

You know me as many things. I’ll list them.

1. Your favourite blogger. Obviously.
2. The person responsible for Canada showing up on your stats page.
3. Your blog son.

I can’t remember when it was that you adopted me as your first blog child, but I’m sure the paperwork is somewhere. Since then, I appreciate you bringing Chris into the family. I needed someone to not play with. 

Normally I save the cheesy parts for the end of the letter, but I figured I’d get them out of the way now, mainly because the rest of this letter is still writing itself in my head.

When I was away at school for four years, one of the cashiers in the cafeteria became my mom away from mom. She was my school mom. I think she was that for a lot of students. At the very least, she was a friendly face who was always happy to see us.

Before one Christmas break, she gave me and my roommate Christmas ornaments with our name on them. I’m pretty sure she didn’t do that for anyone else. She said we were like her kids. 

She called me the Cookie Monster because I always got a packet of two cookies with my dinner. She knew when I was happy, she knew when I was sad, she knew when I got pasta for the third night in a row.

She was the best.

I still remember saying bye to her on my last day and giving her a big hug. I haven’t seen her since. It’s been four years.

So I find it funny that now that I’m in a new “world” – the blogging world – I have another mom to look after me. 

You read all my posts. You comment on 98.3% of them (I ran the numbers). You tell me each one of my poems is the best one I’ve ever written. You tell me my sports posts are your favourite. You say the word “dope” at least three times a week, for reasons I’m still trying to figure out.

You tell me how my posts make you laugh so hard that your husband has to close doors in the house. That is my measuring stick for how funny something is.

You send me emails, you send me messages, you send me more emails.

You ask me for advice. You let me teach you “Canadian things”. You don’t put “u” in your words.

I never expected to find friends on here when I first started blogging. I repelled other bloggers for the first two months I was doing this. I thought they were scary. 

My mentality was: “Don’t talk me. I watched Americas Most Wanted when I was a kid, you’re probably trouble.”

But you’ve been nothing but nice to me the entire time we’ve known each other. When my blog was featured, it was as if your blog had been featured too, because you were often more excited than I was.

And when your blog was featured, I don’t think I could’ve been happier if a pizza had landed in my hands.

You know how much I appreciate you. Blog Brother Chris appreciates you just as much. 

From the top of my head, to the bottom of my maple syrup-filled heart, thank you for everything you’ve done for me. It means more than you know. I’ll never forget any of it.

Okay, now onto the comedic part of this letter.

You asked me how tall I am. Funny, I was just asked last week how tall I am by another blogger. Should I be charging people to find out my age? Are people really that interested?

To answer your question, I am 17 feet tall and 2 feet wide. I have 2 feet, that’s my width, right? And 17 – that’s just a randomly large number.

Alright, I’ll stop being stupid.

Honestly, my height is different depending on who’s asking. If it’s someone I know can take a joke or laugh at small things, I’ll say my height is 5’11 3/4.

But most of the time, I’ll say I am 6 feet tall. 

The truth is, I am actually 5’11 3/4. That’s no joke. I’ve measured with a measuring tape multiple times. I’m right on the brink of 6 feet, but not quite there. 

That being said, I’ll tell people I’m 6 feet tall just because it’s easier to say.

It’s actually fitting that I’m just short of 6 feet. It sums me up perfectly as a person. So close, but not quite all the way there. Also, I like being different and being 6 feet tall is too cliche.

I was once in a group chat with friends at school and they’d text every day asking what time people wanted to go for dinner. Everyone would say “5:30”. I’d say “5:31” just to be different.

When everyone else started saying “5:31”, I’d say that’s too late for me and I wanted to go at “5:29”. I do that with a lot of things. It’s a game to me. It makes boring things interesting. And it keeps people guessing.

That was a really long answer to a really simple question, but what else did you expect?

Finally, you wanted me to tell you a story about a little boy from Canada who found out his favourite pizza place had run out of pizza.

Before I start the fictional story, let me just tell you that this situation has happened to me before. Sorta.

Me and three friends once went to a Pizza Hut buffet for lunch. When we got there, the restaurant was closed for renovations. We then drove all the way to Niagara Falls just to get a Pizza Hut buffet. 

I didn’t make any of that up.

Story time!

There once was a boy named Russ. It was his 7th birthday. For his party, he had invited 24 of his closest friends from school to attend a movie with him, before heading over to his favourite pizza place, PizzaMania. 

14 friends showed up. The other 10 declined because 9 of them were teachers and 1 was a janitor, and they didn’t feel it was appropriate. That, or they didn’t want to see children outside of school hours.

Anyways, they went to the movie theatre and saw that summer’s blockbuster, “What Happens in the Sink”. It was a children’s movie about plates talking dirty to each other.

Things like, “This ketchup is not good exfoliant” and “I can’t believe these people went to watch TV and I have to sit here in my own filth.”

The movie ended when the plates decided to confront the humans, but as soon as the first plate jumped out of the sink, their bungee cord (an old piece of gum) snapped and they fell to their death.

After that, no other plate would sign a wafer.

Enough about the movie though, to PizzaMania!

Russ was so excited. He brought his appetite and everything. He sat next to his best friend, Gus, and the twins – Buffy & Muffy. 

Buffy and Muffy had their own little routine they had prepared beforehand.

Muffy: Hi I’m Muffy!
Buffy: And I’m Buffy!
Both: And we’re going to eat until we’re stuffy!
*Then they would both sniffle and rub their stomach with their hands. It was weird.*

Well, when Russ’ parents went to order the multiple pizzas, they were hit with some unfortunate news. PizzaMania was fresh out of ingredients. It turned out they had already held a birthday party that day.

But who? Who’s birthday could’ve wiped them out?

Then, Russ saw him. Russ’ arch-nemesis exited the washroom at the back of the restaurant. It was Malloy.

Mean Mug Malloy, the King of the playground and crusher of juice boxes. It was also his birthday. Russ was crushed – yes, like a juice box.

Russ: Ahoy, Malloy! You ate all the pizza!

Malloy: I sure did. And now we’re going to see “What Happens in the Sink”. I heard at school you were watching the movie first and then going for pizza, so I decided to come for pizza first and eat everything with my friends.

Russ: How could you!?

Malloy: With my stomach! 

Russ: Oh yeah, well the plate dies in the end! Broken bungee cord.

Malloy: YOU RUINED IT! You better watch your juice box on Monday, Fussy Russy.

With that, Malloy ran out to meet up with some of his friends who had waited for him – Leroy and the twins – Bill & Will.

Russ was furious and had to settle for another pizza place – Pizzahauntus. The restaurant was a play on “Pocahontas” but with a horror theme. Russ didn’t sleep for days. He said it was all the pizza he ate. His parents claimed otherwise.

The End.

Well, Barb. That’s it. I hope this letter lived up to your expectations. If it didn’t, just lie to me and say that it did. 

I won’t repeat anything I said earlier because that would kick the word count even higher than it is saying something twice would cheapen the first time I said it.

I hope you have a great day and a great school year teaching children who will see you as their school mom the same way I see you as my blog mom.

With an extra “u” in the word “favourite”,

Pal

(I took the “u” out of my name just to Americanize it. You’re welcome!)